


it's never been a drag

by likewinning



Series: little beasts [74]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:31:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7513564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likewinning/pseuds/likewinning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You slowing down on me?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's never been a drag

When Jason shows up at the house, he finds Bruce alone at the kitchen table, an open bottle of whiskey and a first aid kit spread out in front of him, blood all over everything because he's bleeding from a shoulder wound.

"Where's the kid?" Jason asks.

Bruce looks up at him, grunts, hisses when he stabs himself with the needle he's using to stitch himself up. "Barcelona," he says. "Or Rome, maybe. Dick took him."

Jason raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment. He steps over to Bruce, pulls a chair next to him and swats Bruce's hands away so he can look at the damage. "Jesus," he says. "You always did fuck this up. What happened?"

"What do you think?" Bruce asks. He reaches over for the whiskey and chugs it down like a frat boy shotgunning a beer. "Someone was a very good shot."

Jason's hands are steady. He learned how to do this before Bruce even found him, when he would help Dr. Thompson patch up some of the girls on his block. The worst was Theresa, that gash in her thigh that left a bloody trail up the steps to where Jason was crashing at the time. He was sure she was going to die, but -

"Old man," Jason says. This close he can see wrinkles and grey, the scar under Bruce's chin from when he taught Dick how to fight with a knife, the cigarette burn on his neck from when they were high as fuck and nearly set a hotel bed on fire. "You slowing down on me?"

Bruce bares his teeth, still white and sharp despite the number of them he's hand to replace over the years. He's only seen Bruce get in a few real fights, the ones that tear your knuckles, but he's heard the stories.

It's rare to see Bruce _in_ Gotham anymore, but you ask any two-bit dealer and they'll tell you a story.

"It was a lucky shot," Bruce says.

Jason hums, finishes the stitch and snips the rest of the string. "You should have called one of us," he says, and Bruce looks at him, eyes big and tired and a little drunk.

"I did," he says.

"I meant _before_ you made a mess," Jason says. He puts everything back in the first aid kit, lifts the bottle of whiskey to his mouth and takes a pull. Bruce watches him all the while like something hungry, and it feels too warm in here.

"How's Tim?" Bruce asks, and Jason laughs.

"Do you really care?" he asks.

Bruce licks his lips. Jason sits back down, presses his lips to Bruce's shoulder. "He's a good soldier," Bruce says. Jason takes Bruce's hand, brings it to his lap and Bruce squeezes.

"That all we are to you, B?" he asks.

"No," Bruce says. He drags Jason in with his other hand, kisses him like a fist to the jaw, like a shot in the arm, like the thump coke makes in his head sometimes. "Not you," Bruce says, and he stands, wobbles just a little, but there's nothing unsteady about the way he drags Jason up and pushes him back against the table.

Jason pants, helps Bruce push his jeans down past his ass. "You always come when I call," Bruce says. 

"Yeah, I do," Jason says. There's no use denying it, no need to tell Bruce he had other things to do besides play nurse today. It wouldn't matter. He lifts his shirt off and Bruce attacks, teeth and lips and tongue everywhere, from his neck right down to his cock. The table wobbles and Bruce's knees crack when he bends down to swallow Jason's dick, and Jason pulls out a handful of Bruce's hair with one hand while he reaches for the whiskey with the other.

Bruce pulls off him with a slurp, his mouth shiny and red, pupils huge. "You know," he says. "If you wanted to come back -"

Come back to a bed that isn't just his anymore, to a house littered with pills that don't belong to him, to a house that was only ever home because of Bruce and Dick. Jason lives in the heart of Gotham, noise and traffic and gunshots, and most of the time it feels right. He sleeps with a knife under his pillow and a gun in the nightstand, and sometimes there's someone next to him.

"I know," Jason says. He turns around, braces himself against the table. Bruce finds some slick in the first aid kit and slides two fingers into him right away, rough and thick, and Jason's dick leaks all over the table when Bruce leans down to suck on his neck, to tell him, "I always need you here, you know."

He's been drinking, Jason reminds himself. They both have. "Just fuck me," Jason says. "Come on," and he grabs both of Bruce's hands, guides them to his hips and Bruce fucks _in_ , all at once, fills him until he can't breathe and his breath rattles in rhythm with Bruce's, loud as a Gotham subway.

"Now," Jason says, and Bruce pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in, again and again until Jason can feel the bruises building on his skin from the table, from Bruce's hands. Bruce brings one hand up to Jason's throat, loose but heavy, and Jason pushes into it, all but begs for Bruce to _squeeze_.

"Yeah," Jason says. Bruce's balls slap against him and the table moves half an inch with every forward thrust. "Please, Bruce, I -"

"What do you need?" Bruce asks. He squeezes his throat and Jason gasps, whines, feels like the cock-hungry kid he used to be. "Is it that?"

"Anything," Jason says. "Need to come. Need you to _make_ me come, Bruce, _please_."

"Mm," Bruce says. He slows down, and Jason thinks about reaching for the knife in his boot because of it. "I'm not going to touch you," he says. "You're going to come just from this." He angles his thrust and hits Jason's prostate, and Jason's nails gouge the wood of the table.

"Yes," Jason says, like he's agreeing to something, because with Bruce he always is.

"You're not leaving tonight," Bruce says. He's barely moving at all now, just enough to hit Jason's prostate each time he does. Sweat drips in Jason's eyes and he feels like he's _dying_. "Maybe not tomorrow, either."

"Bruce," Jason whines.

"No," Bruce says. He hums, thrusts _hard_ and the bottle of whiskey spills over, pouring onto Jason's thighs. Bruce mops some of it up with his fingers and offers it to Jason to lick. Jason sucks his fingers, bites them until Bruce laughs and squeezes his neck. Jason lets him go.

Bruce brings both hands back to Jason's hips and picks up his pace again, and Jason can't tell their noise apart. Everything smells like sex and blood and alcohol, and the table squeaks, and when Bruce spills into him Jason collapses onto the table, Bruce half on top of him.

"Fuck," Jason says. His throat hurts from yelling and his legs shake when he tries to move them. Bruce is still inside of him, and he still needs to come. "Bruce," he says. "Bruce, I need -"

"Anything," Bruce says, in that happy, sated voice like valium and wine when they used to have to host parties here, used to have to pretend they were actual members of polite society. Bruce bought off everyone worth buying a long time ago though, and now they mostly leave him alone.

"Touch me," Jason says, and Bruce reaches underneath them, wraps his hand around Jason's dick, his grip tight and firm.

"You know," Bruce says as he jerks him off, slow and hard and everything Jason needs right now. "I _meant_ what I said. You could -"

"I know," Jason says. "Just - I know."

Bruce kisses his shoulders, the scars and ink there, then scrapes his teeth on the back of his neck. "Come for me," he says. "You can do that, can't you, Jay?"

It hits Jason like a fucking machine gun when Bruce says it, and he's saying _yes_ and _Bruce_ again and again until Bruce finally lets go and shushes him, brings his filthy hand up to Jason's mouth for him to clean.

Bruce finally pulls out and they stand up. Jason pulls his jeans back on, but doesn't bother with the shirt. Bruce is staring at him again, like he didn't get enough - like he never does.

"It's late," Bruce says. He reaches out, runs his fingers through Jason's hair. "Will you stay?"

"I," Jason says. He can still feel Bruce everywhere he's been, and not just tonight. "Yeah, okay."

Bruce hums, nods, and goes to find something else to drink. "Who shot you, anyway?" Jason asks.

"Oh," Bruce says. He uncaps the new bottle, takes a swig. "It's not important."


End file.
